


Beginnings

by solitaryjo



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaryjo/pseuds/solitaryjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant and De Lancey's relationship begins to develop after the Battle of Busaco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Towards the end of September 1810, Wellington had positioned his army at the convent of Busaco on a long, high ridge stretching ten miles north from the Mondego River. The ridge rose steeply to a height of 300 metres in some places and the men had spent the last two days venturing back and forth over the edge, repelling the attacks of various enemy divisions. Although the French had clearly underestimated the strength of the position held by the British and Portuguese infantry and were suffering heavy casualties, they did not seem at all inclined to give up.

Amidst the chaos of the battle, Major Colquhoun Grant could just about hear De Lancey shouting orders, urging the men to fix bayonets and charge once again at the advancing French. Grant had only recently been appointed to Wellington’s personal staff and was not yet sure what to make of the brash young Colonel under whose command he found himself.

He did not particularly enjoy this kind of close-quarters engagement, preferring to be out on his own watching the movement of the French troops or mingling with the locals to discover information that might prove useful to the British Army. De Lancey, on the other hand, seemed to relish the heat of battle and could often be seen laughing as he charged headlong into the fray or returned from a particularly bloody sortie. All of which served to underline Grant’s impression of him as somewhat reckless and impetuous. Not to mention his taste for bawdy songs and tendency to make lewd comments at the most inappropriate moments. However, Grant could see that the man was a damn good soldier and he had clearly earned Wellington’s trust, so that was good enough.

Suddenly he realised that he could not hear De Lancey any more. In fact, he could not hear much at all other than the screams and groans of the injured and dying. The French guns had stopped firing and it became clear that Massena had called off the assault. The order was given to return to the convent, presumably as a precursor to falling back behind the Lines of Torres Vedras - the massive system of defences that the army had spent the last year constructing to prevent the French from reaching Lisbon. Grant could not deny that he felt a certain sense of relief. He had seen enough bloodshed in the last few days and welcomed the thought of wintering behind the Lines in an unassailable position.

However, it seemed Wellington was not quite done with this battle yet. As soon as Grant reached the convent, he was ordered to go back out and assess the situation. Although he agreed that it was important to discover if Massena had left behind any spies or injured men who might provide valuable intelligence about the Marshal’s plans, he thought that it was a bit much to expect him to gather such information with his stomach empty and his uniform in such an untidy state. Nonetheless, he set off back the way he had come.

He made his way carefully down the steep slope, seeking cover wherever he could find it until he reached the woods at the base of the escarpment, and then proceeded to follow the line of the ridge, stopping every now and then to watch and listen for any signs of a residual French presence.

During one such pause, he heard a faint whimpering from one of the gullies that cut into the rocks to his left. Thinking it to be an animal that had got caught in the crossfire of the earlier battle, and being the kind of man who could not bear to see any creature suffering unnecessarily, he decided it was only right to put the poor thing out of its misery. As the possibility of French survivors prohibited the use of his firearm, he drew a small but sharp knife out of a sheath on his belt and flattened himself against the rock at the entrance to the ravine, hoping that the whole affair would be less drawn out and taxing if he could catch the animal by surprise and did not have to chase it down before delivering the fatal blow. He peered around the corner to find out what manner of creature he was dealing with and found himself staring down the barrel of a musket.

“Good lord, Major!” exclaimed De Lancey. “What in God’s name are you thinking, sneaking up on a man like that? I could have blown your damn head off!”

Grant balked at this unexpected discovery. Despite his reservations about De Lancey’s character, he was sure that the one thing the man was not was a coward. Indeed, to find the Colonel here looking for all the world like he was hiding from the French was such a shock that he barely registered the gun pointed at his head. But as De Lancey lowered the weapon, Grant saw the blood stained rags tied tightly around his left thigh and realised that the expression he had mistaken for fear was in fact a reflection of the excruciating pain that the wound must be causing.

“Do not just stand there making a target of us,” snapped De Lancey, “get in here and for Christ’s sake take off that coat. You might as well be inviting them to find us.”

Still stunned, Grant did as he was ordered, squeezing into the narrow space and propping himself against the rock opposite De Lancey. In hindsight, it would probably have been a better idea to remove his coat first, as it proved exceedingly difficult to execute the manoeuvre in the confined space, especially as he had to take extra care to avoid knocking against De Lancey’s injured leg, but he eventually managed to extricate himself from the uniform, fold it up and place it on a ledge that jutted out from the rock. This elicited a look of disdain from De Lancey, “Must you always be so damned neat, Major?” he asked with a snort of derision.

“There is no need to lower one’s personal standards just because one finds oneself in an adverse situation,” replied Grant rather haughtily, making it abundantly clear that he did not think De Lancey’s personal standards could actually get much lower.

Before De Lancey could come up with a suitably sarcastic retort, Grant’s trained ears picked out the sound of French voices on the wind and he raised his hand to signal that they should be silent. The voices were getting louder and De Lancey instinctively shifted his position to try and blend in with the rock, letting out an ungodly howl as the pain shot through his leg. Without thinking, Grant clapped one hand over the other man’s mouth to stifle the cries and grasped his arm with the other to steady him. De Lancey gripped his arm in return with such ferocity that Grant feared he might cry out himself and give away their position.

De Lancey’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breath coming in ragged gasps and his jaw clenching and unclenching as tears ran down his face and over the back of Grant’s hand. They stayed like that for what seemed an eternity until the voices eventually started to fade and De Lancey’s breathing began to return to normal. His eyes opened and he gave a small nod to indicate that he had himself under control, so Grant relaxed his hand slightly, allowing himself to feel the hot breath on his palm as he scanned De Lancey’s face for signs that the pain was about to return. He was fully expecting to be admonished for manhandling a superior officer in such a fashion but found that he did not care so very much - his sense of duty and the same instinct that had urged him to go looking for a wounded animal in the first place now prompted him to do whatever it took to ensure De Lancey’s safety, even at the expense of his own career.

What he did not expect was the look of gratitude in De Lancey’s eyes as he managed to gasp “Thank you, Major.” Now that the immediate danger was over and night was falling, the combination of pain, exhaustion and cold seemed to drain the energy from his very being, leaving him pale and shaking, his hand still weakly grasping Grant’s arm.

Grant gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile, retrieved his coat from the ledge, unfolded it and placed it gently around De Lancey’s shoulders. He was almost hoping for a snide remark about the blood stains that might get on the coat or the presumption that his action would make any difference in their present situation but De Lancey simply leaned into his chest with a shuddering sigh and a faint moan. This was too much for Grant, who wrapped his other arm around to join the one that was still resting on De Lancey’s shoulders, murmuring “we must get you warm, it will not do for you to freeze to death after all this.” De Lancey showed no sign of protesting so Grant held him as close as he could, stroking his hair and whispering “shush now” until the shaking subsided.

His senses were overwhelmed by the scent of De Lancey’s damp hair, mingled with the earthy aroma of the wet leaves on the floor of the gully and the tang of blood that remained in the evening air from the previous day’s battle, and when the clouds parted and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the scene he could not help but gasp in astonishment at the sight of the face looking up at him. He knew that the flushed cheeks, wide eyes and slightly parted lips were merely symptoms of De Lancey’s current condition but some part of him was subconsciously interpreting them as signs of arousal and his own body was reacting accordingly - a response that he had never even suspected himself of possessing.

He managed to tear his gaze away from De Lancey’s upturned face, cleared his throat and tried to sound as if he were simply doing his job. “Perhaps I should go out there and see if the way is clear for us to attempt a return to camp.”

“No,” said De Lancey, though it was more of a question than an order, “I am sure they will come looking for you in the morning and I want to be absolutely certain that we get back safely.”

The lascivious grin that Grant had so despised only hours before appeared on his face and Grant found that it was not at all displeasing when it was so obviously directed at him.

“After all,” De Lancey continued, glancing down at Grant’s crotch and then back up at his face with a wicked glint in his eyes, “I must make sure you are properly rewarded for saving my life.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grant regarded De Lancey with growing concern. Despite the younger man’s attempts to make light of the situation, he was clearly in a great deal of pain and struggling to remain upright as he slumped against the rocky wall of the gully where they were concealed. Fearing that he would lose consciousness and exacerbate his injury by falling awkwardly, Grant decided to take matters into his own hands. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to sit down,” he suggested.

De Lancey shook his head. “I fear I would be unable to do so without making an awful racket,” he sighed, “and I would not want to increase our chances of being discovered.”

“Then let me help you.” Grant tried to sound calm and unconcerned as he carefully shifted his position and wrapped his arms tightly around De Lancey’s waist from behind. This of course prompted a wry smile from De Lancey, who could not help commenting, even in his weakened state, “Really Major, can you not wait to get your hands on me?”

“Just be quiet and try to keep that leg off the ground,“ Grant retorted. “I will support you.”

De Lancey, too exhausted to protest, let himself relax as Grant took a step backwards and lowered them both to the ground as gently as he could, his tired muscles trembling as he bore the weight. Seated with his back to the rock wall, Grant knew that he was in for an extremely uncomfortable night but any concerns about his own welfare were pushed from his mind as De Lancey leant back against his shoulder and let out a long shuddering breath.

“Rest now,” he whispered, absently stroking De Lancey’s soft auburn hair, “I will keep watch.”

———–

Nobody had seen fit to bring news of De Lancey’s condition to a mere Major, so it was with a certain sense of dread that Grant approached the room he had been directed to when he had asked.

He recalled the scouting party from the British camp finding them not long after sunrise but everything after that was a bit of a blur.

He remembered the men barely acknowledging his presence as they fussed over De Lancey and shouted out for someone to fetch a stretcher to carry him back up the steep ridge because a wagon would not be of any use in that terrain.

He remembered the lump he had felt in his throat when he saw how pale De Lancey looked in the daylight and how the spark he had come to cherish was missing from his eyes.

He remembered, or thought he remembered, those eyes flickering with recognition when they fixed on him and the slightest hint of a smile appearing on the dry, cracked lips.

But then they had rushed De Lancey away and he had been left standing in the clearing, swaying on his feet as lack of sleep and the effects of spending a whole night alert for the approach of danger finally caught up with him. He had only just managed to get himself back to the convent before collapsing into a deep sleep that had lasted much longer than he had intended.

————

He was bracing himself for the worst when Lord Wellington emerged from the room. 

“Ah, Major, there you are. I had intended to send you back into the field to gather the intelligence that I asked for in the first place,” he looked rather put out, “but I suppose I cannot fault you for bringing my friend back alive instead and he insists that I do no such thing.”

The news that De Lancey was well and in good enough spirits to be answering back to his commanding officer sent a wave of relief coursing through Grant’s veins, but his joy was tempered by Wellington’s words as he strode off down the corridor: “Go on in then. He has been asking for you.”

He hesitated, thoughts playing in his head that he could not dismiss. Was De Lancey only asking for him so that he could make sure he knew the half-remembered words and stolen looks of the night before had been a result of the pain and the precarious nature of their situation and must never be mentioned? Although the professional soldier in Grant admitted that this would be for the best, the man simply could not bear the thought of it. Perhaps he should just turn around and leave, postpone their next meeting until there were others present and he would not have to face that particular conversation.

That option disappeared as the surgeon followed Wellington out of the room, leaving the door open so that Grant was visible from the bed where the injured man lay.

De Lancey was propped up on a pile of pillows, a rough-looking sheet turned down to expose his injured leg, and as Grant edged slowly into the room he was relieved to see that the wound had been cleaned and dressed and there appeared to be no sign of infection. Realising that the direction of his gaze could be misinterpreted in light of the previous night’s events and the fact that De Lancey was wearing nothing but his shirt and undergarments, he raised his eyes and noticed that although the leg had been attended to, the rest of the man was still in much the same state it had been after their night in the ravine – his shirt stained and dishevelled and his face and hands streaked with dirt.

_Well_ , he thought, annoyance at those who had the gall to leave an officer in this condition overruling any concerns about potential embarrassment or disappointment on his own part,  _this will not do at all._

He moved the stool that the surgeon had been using so it was level with the head of the bed and sat down. De Lancey watched with a puzzled frown as Grant rubbed the corner of the sheet between his fingers, shook his head and then proceeded to unfasten his belt, remove the crimson sash from around his waist and dip it into a jar of water that had been left on the floor.

In normal circumstances, the sight of Grant intentionally vandalising his own uniform would have drawn a barrage of good-humoured abuse from De Lancey, but the only sound he made was a slight gasp as he felt the first touch of the cool water on his hands.

As he watched Grant, head bowed and absorbed in his task, it felt as if every nerve in his body was focused on the sensation - so much so that he stopped noticing the pain in his leg. He shuddered and let out a small moan at the feeling of the smooth wet silk sliding between his fingers, causing Grant to stop what he was doing and look up in alarm, his eyes widening first with concern -  _did I hurt you?_  - and then with unconcealed desire as the sight of De Lancey looking down at him, cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted, rekindled all the feelings he had been trying so hard to deny.

Grant felt like he was no longer in control of his movements. Without looking away, he dipped the sash into the jar again and let the water drip onto De Lancey’s face, smiling to himself as it revealed a light dusting of freckles still visible against his tanned skin.

De Lancey tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting Grant wash away the dirt and stress of the last few days. He licked his lips to catch a drop of water and groaned with delight as he felt Grant catch his breath in response. Repeating the action slowly and deliberately, he looked up from under lowered lashes, biting his lower lip as the desire overwhelmed him and finally breaking his silence to growl, “Damn it Grant, if you don’t kiss me right now, I’ll …”

The rest remained unspoken as the sound of men running down the corridor jolted them to their senses and they pulled apart just in time before a young captain flung the door open and breathlessly informed them of the news:

“Lord Wellington has ordered us to abandon this position. We are returning to the Lines.”


	3. Chapter 3

They had been riding all night and De Lancey was starting to wish he had not volunteered to accompany Grant on this mission. Although the wound in his thigh was healing well, the hours in the saddle had aggravated it and the discomfort was turning to pain. He hated to admit it but his main reason for requesting the assignment had been to talk to Grant about what had almost happened between them at Busaco.

He thought he could see a reflection of his own need to address the matter whenever he caught the Major’s eyes but every time he was about to bring it up, Grant looked away and resumed his single-minded focus on the mission. Even here, alone and miles from the nearest outpost, it seemed as if he was not going to get the chance to say what he so desperately wanted to.

They were heading for a village in the snow-capped mountains of Alto Alentjo, north of the Lines of Torres Vedras where the army had been settling in for the last two weeks. The delayed arrival of transports bringing rations from England was causing a serious supply shortage in the area south of the Lines, where the population had been swollen to breaking point by the presence of so many troops and refugees, and Grant had insisted that he would be able to obtain cattle and grain if he was given permission to leave the camp.

He knew the people in the surrounding area had plenty of supplies hidden away in the remote mountain valleys and was sure that they would be forthcoming if he could spread the word that the British needed food and were willing to pay for it so he had convinced Wellington to provide him with a large bag of coin and send him out to see what he could find, albeit not alone as he had intended.

They finally reached their destination in the late afternoon, making their way through narrow cobbled streets between the whitewashed houses until they arrived at an inn where Grant arranged lodgings for them in a small building at the rear and passed the innkeeper a few coins to put the word about.

“Now what?” asked De Lancey as they took a table in the courtyard and waited for the innkeeper to bring them the refreshments they had ordered.

“Now we wait.” Grant relaxed visibly and De Lancey realised he had been more concerned than he had let on about travelling through the French lines to reach the mountains. But then that was the thing with Grant, one could very rarely tell what was going on underneath that calm and collected exterior.

Sitting in the late evening sun and savouring the local food and wine, De Lancey yawned and stretched his arms above his head. Catching Grant looking at him, he decided that he was unlikely to get a better opportunity than this.

“Grant,” he began, “I have been meaning to…”

He almost banged his glass down on the table in frustration as they were interrupted by a pair of scruffy looking individuals who approached their table and started babbling at them in Portuguese. He had of course picked up a few words here and there but they were talking so fast and with such thick accents that he was completely flummoxed and turned to Grant with a questioning look.

“They say that one of the rebel leaders is inside. He has heard about our plans and wishes to speak with me.” He picked up the bag containing the money and rose to accompany the men into the building but De Lancey put a hand on his arm.

“Hold on. You are not going in there alone.” he stood up to follow but this prompted another incomprehensible outburst from the Portuguese.

“They do not wish you to know the identity of their leader,” Grant translated, the hint of a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth, “They say they do not trust you – you have shifty eyes.”

“Well, Lord Wellington entrusted me with your safety and I do not intend to sit out here while you swan off into the unknown after coming all this way. Tell them it is both of us or nothing.”

Whatever Grant said, it was certainly not as blunt as that but the men seemed to agree with what he was suggesting and gestured for De Lancey to follow.

They came to a halt outside a room at the back of the main building and the men turned to look at Grant, who stepped towards De Lancey and reached into his bag, taking out a handful of red material.

De Lancey’s eyes widened as he recognised the sash that Grant had used to wipe away the dirt of battle so carefully that night in the convent. Damaged by the water, it could no longer pass muster as part of the uniform but for some reason Grant had kept it among his possessions.

“Go along with this.” Grant’s tone held a hint of warning as he took the sash and tied it around De Lancey’s head, covering his eyes with the crimson silk.

——-

“Well, that was most unpleasant,” De Lancey complained, “I know you need his cooperation but making me stand there like a dummy with this ridiculous blindfold…“

He reached up to remove the offending item and was about to pull the sash from his eyes when the sound of Grant’s urgent “No. Leave it on.” prompted him to stop what he was doing with an exasperated sigh,

“What? They have gone have they not? Why should I endure this humiliation for a moment longer?”

Grant hesitated. He still had a chance to make light of the situation and leave things as they were but he was too far gone to care. The thoughts had started as soon as he had tied the sash around De Lancey’s eyes and he had found it almost impossible to concentrate on the negotiations with the rebel leader as images of what might follow had played in his mind.

“Leave it on,” he repeated, his voice husky with desire as he tightened his grip on De Lancey’s hand and guided him through the door towards the outbuilding.

Grant looked around the room and saw that some home comforts had been introduced while they were out - there was a basin of water standing on the table by the mirror, accompanied by a bar of soap and and small clay bottle. He removed the stopper and held it to his nose, smiling to himself as he resealed it and tucked it into his belt.

De Lancey was standing quite still in the middle of the room. He could not suppress a gasp of anticipation when Grant started unbuttoning his jacket but he tried to still his breathing and focus on the sensations running through his body as each piece of his uniform was removed.

Stripped to the waist, he could now sense rather than hear Grant moving slowly around him and could almost feel those dark eyes drinking in the sight of him.

Grant played his fingertips over De Lancey’s back with the lightest of touches, watching with delight as he noticed the little shivers of pleasure every time he renewed the contact. He leaned in close so that De Lancey could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck. 

“Do you still feel humiliated?”

De Lancey’s reply was almost a whimper. “God no.”

“Good.” Grant was standing in front of him now, running his fingers through the soft hair on his chest. He took the little bottle out of his belt and a tipped a few drops into his hand, rubbing it over his fingers and tracing a circle around De Lancey’s nipple. When he replaced his fingers with his tongue, De Lancey let out a moan, his senses overwhelmed by the exquisite feeling of Grant’s mouth on his skin and the sweet scent of apricots from the oil.

“Quiet.” Grant pressed his fingers to De Lancey’s mouth and had to suppress a groan himself as he felt the Colonel part his lips and suck at the tips. He looked up at the flushed cheeks beneath the crimson sash and the full lips circling his fingers and could barely believe this was not a dream.

“So beautiful,” he breathed as he took De Lancey’s face in his hands and leaned in for the slow, deep kiss that he had been imagining for so long.

Standing this close, he could feel the throbbing of De Lancey’s hot, hard cock against his own erection. Resisting the temptation give in to his own desire, he sank to his knees and eased De Lancey’s breeches down over his hips.

“If it were not for this,” he murmured, kissing the large red scar on De Lancey’s left thigh gently before moving his mouth to his balls and teasing him with his lips and tongue.

De Lancey could not keep his arms by his sides any longer. He had one hand on Grant’s shoulder and the other on the back of his head.

“Please…”

Grant grasped the base of De Lancey’s cock and took him into his mouth, rolling his hand and lips up and down the shaft with a slow twisting motion and going a little deeper each time.

De Lancey could not take any more of this sweet torture. His need to see Grant got the better of him and he pulled the sash from his eyes.

The sight of the fair hair tangled between his fingers and the swollen lips wrapped around his cock almost sent him over the edge and when Grant looked up with naked adoration in his eyes he could not hold back any longer.

“Oh… I can’t…” he gasped as his whole body tensed and he felt Grant swallowing as he spent into his open mouth.

Grant knelt back on his haunches, licking his lips and looking up in wonder at the blissful smile on De Lancey’s face. He slowly got to his feet and pulled him into a long, lingering kiss.

He tasted of sweet apricots, warm summer nights and the promise of untold pleasures to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [thaumatomane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/choosedailymail/pseuds/thaumatomane) for making me realise that a sash has several potential uses :)


End file.
